


Deal Closure

by Bibliotecaria_D



Series: Amusing Shibara [1]
Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:26:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pharma used to have ethics, and real reasons for the deal he made with the DJD.  Tarn has ways to make him forget it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deal Closure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shibara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shibara/gifts).



Pharma used to have ethics, and real reasons for the deal he made with the DJD. Tarn has ways to make him forget it all.

 

 **Title:** Deal Closure  
 **Warnings:** The DJD is to justice like a hacksaw is to a butter knife. The meat does not consent beforehand.  
 **Show Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** More Than Meets the Eye  
 **Characters:** Pharma, Tarn  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Shibara drew a picture. She showed me the picture, and obviously, a story had to be written to explain it. I don’t know if she does this to me intentionally or not. 

**[* * * * *]**

 

“You,” the huge tank boomed, “are late.”

The jet swooped down and hovered for a second in order to transform and touch down. He made a point of doing so gracefully. It never paid to give the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division a hint of discomfort. Tarn inevitably took that as an invitation to pry until discomfort became full-blown discomfiture, and then Pharma ended up trying to hide purple paint transfers. It was getting harder to hide all the small marks in general, but paint transfers were dead give-aways. His frame had been color-patterned after his profession; the blue hid darker purple alright, but only a call from First Aid had kept Ambulon from spotting the obvious smears over red and white last time.

“I’m a busy mech,” he snapped back at the larger mech. It wasn’t wise to mouth off to a Decepticon known for his cruelty and, as Pharma knew personally, prone to get grabby hands when he wanted to humble someone. The medic wasn’t known for curbing his temper, however, and the brusque response also served to cover apprehension.

Either the towering mech sensed the taint of fear in the medic’s close-clamped EM field, or he was just a sadistic fragger. The anger Pharma had been attempting to provoke didn’t manifest. Instead, amusement glittered in red optics, and Tarn held out a hand imperiously. 

The Autobot could have dealt better with a fight. It wouldn’t have been the first time Tarn had gotten angry and taught ‘his’ uppity medic a lesson in submission and pain. That mostly involved Pharma getting a few good blasts from his shoulder cannons in while trying to escape before the heavier, more combat-skilled mech ground him into the dirt. That, the tank inevitably did. There was no escape from the DJD, ever. Even if Pharma managed to fly away, he knew that his freedom would be temporary at best. Delphi was _in_ the DJD’s territory. What was he going to do, fly back to a facility more trap than shelter? 

No, he fought, he always knew the fights were futile. He lost, every time, and Tarn took pleasure in making the jet apologize at great length for starting the fights.

Those apologies were almost worse than the fact that every time the leader of the DJD took him down, he also took the opportunity to change their deal. Position of power, gun to the Autobot’s head? Of course he’d taken advantage. The quota had increased for every pathetically one-sided fight they’d engaged in here. 

Pharma was the head of the Delphi Emergency Medical Clinic. He was a surgeon of unparalleled skill. He had taught legions of no-talent simpletons to hold a laser scalpel correctly and saved thousands of lives. Sure, he was supplying an increasing amount of T-cogs to the DJD, but the donors were dead metal anyway. Was it treason to keep his medical facility and his ward manager from being overrun by savage killers? As far as he was concerned, that was a moral grey area. He had a responsibility to his clinic first, his staff second, and, anyway, dead patients were beyond faction.

Less moral and more personal, supplying the T-cogs kept him from screaming his own life out in utter agony, which is how he'd been introduced to this massive 'Con and why he'd struck this damnable bargain with him in the first place. It was also why he kept agreeing to Tarn’s changes. Pain and defeat were old companions whenever Pharma received the summons and came out here to commit his secret treason. A newer companion was the one he feared more. 

Shame, he’d been able to dodge up until now. Regrets were for weaker mechs, after all, and he was only doing what was necessary to keep his facility and staff operational. He _knew_ that. He had every confidence that every shady action he’d taken had been a necessity, means ultimately justified by the end. He’d kept that in mind since the klik he’d crashed and come back online in the shadow of this very Decepticon.

However, humiliation had been nipping his heels since the last meeting. It’d been a constant presence while he’d polished away the paint transfers, and it lurked in Tarn’s shadow now, just waiting to scurry over and latch onto the medic again.

He really, really didn’t want a repeat of the last meeting. But show Tarn even a hint of weakness, and the leader of the DJD went in for the kill. Pharma knew that. 

He also knew he’d missed quota again. Without the anger, he wasn’t sure it was pain he’d be punished with, and that made something tweak in the center of his spark. 

The medic walked forward, projecting bravado where his courage was already shrinking down under his cockpit. A self-confident mech didn’t _inch_ forward, so pride dictated that he at least appear like he wasn’t afraid to get near the looming purple Decepticon. He held out the bag of T-cogs as far ahead of himself as he could, trying appear disgusted by the contents as he handed it over instead of like he was trying to stay _away_ from the bulkier mech. As soon as Tarn’s hand closed around the bag, Pharma let go and stepped back -- 

Or rather, he tried. Quick as a flash, Tarn’s other hand had him by the wingtip. 

Pharma froze. Humiliation simpered out into the open and crawled up the Autobot’s body to flood into his mouth and make itself at home choking him. He swallowed its bitter taste and tamped it down to under his cockpit to deal with later. If there was a later, which was still questionable.

Purple fingers rubbed back and forth on the thin metal as if testing the quality before closing into a light fist that tugged gently. The medic allowed the hand to reel him in, turning him to tuck his back against the Decepticon’s front in a parody of a lovers’ embrace. He wasn’t going to struggle. He already knew how that would end. His goal, much as it burned him to admit it, was to minimize the telltale paint transfers that’d nearly betrayed his treason last time. Cooperation would keep the scuffing down.

As terrible as cooperating with this would be.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe Tarn would be content with just holding him to emphasize how little power Pharma had in this situation. If that were the case, the head of the Delphi clinic could knuckle under and bear it for a while. He fought his pride to a restless standstill and stood tamely in the enemy’s arms.

The tank chuckled, low and intimate in his chest. Red and white wings twitched nervously. Close as Pharma held his field, Tarn held him closer yet. Cruel satisfaction bled in waves over the medic. Tarn tasted his hidden fear, lapped the tingle of electromagnetic energy out of his circuitry, and gave him back dark enjoyment.

“What are you afraid of?” the Decepticon asked, and his medic stiffened into a tense statue. “You have nothing to fear if you’ve abided by our bargain. Ah, and that you must do. Surely you wouldn’t break the deal twice in a row, my dear Pharma? You did promise me that there would be no repetition of your last failure.” His voice insinuated that the penalty for breaking that promise would be steep, but it made the penalty real by rippling a zap of energy straight through the spark he held captive. Not a high voltage charge, but menacing for the unspoken threat.

A threat made more sinister because it wasn’t necessarily pain that would be inflicted. 

Red feet shuffled, and fans sputtered as their power cut. Too late to cover how they’d sped up anxiously, however, and Tarn smiled behind his mask. He let go of the jet’s wing in order to take the bag in both hands. “Let’s see what your word is worth, shall we?”

Held between two arms almost as big as his entire upper body, Pharma had no choice but to watch as the bag opened in front of him and the T-cogs were slowly counted out. One by one, out loud, and his spark jumped with every number. “One. Two. Three -- hmm, damaged. That only counts as two, then. Four.” Icy fear slicked between his shoulders where Tarn’s voice vibrated against his main turbine, but the vibrations coiled heat around his spark. “Five. Six. Seven.”

The Decepticon’s voice dropped, number by number, until he paused significantly. Pharma’s fans were still locked, and he hoped breathing through his mouth was stealthy enough to pass unnoticed. He kept the ventilations low and steady, letting the air ease out instead of gusting. It still sounded loud to his audios, but his audios were positioned near his throat; he hoped that meant his breathing wasn’t actually that loud. 

That hope was dashed when Tarn lowered his head to rest on the edge of the yellow turbine right behind the Autobot’s helm. “Are your ventilation system malfunctioning, Pharma? Tsk. As a medic, I would think you would take better care of yourself. If you cannot, perhaps you should look into finding yourself a caretaker.” Concern oozed from his words, false and cloying. Red and white wings perked up indignantly at the implied dismissal of the medic’s skills, and for a second, Pharma forgot to be afraid. 

Tarn smiled and let his voice _roll_ down him in a purring fall of sound. “ **Eight**.”

Caught unprepared, Pharma gasped and arched, optics fritzing.

“Nine,” the tank counted, deliberately neither mentioning his medic’s sudden open-mouthed panting nor lifting his head from where he’d rested it. It gave him a wonderful view down the airframe’s body: that tempting, shiny canopy glass covering a whirling, frantic spark, and the hands half-raised in futile defense. Such a delicious sight to take in -- and an even better thing to cause. “Ten. Eleven. Oh? What’s this?” 

The jet’s vents flipped open and shut in a subtle gesture of nerves. A trained surgeon and prestigious head of a medical facility had to have excellent control over his outward signs of emotion, but the sizzle of _fear_ that shimmered through Pharma’s EM field couldn’t be suppressed. Tarn dipped his head and inhaled deeply, letting his vents suck the air and trace electricity away in a noisy burst. The scent of turbine-burnt fuel and false bravado slid down his intakes like the finest high grade, sipped while he listened to the dying screams of those who spited Lord Megatron’s will. 

Sadistic anticipation bloomed over the massive tank’s own field, and humiliation wriggled and squirmed around chunks of cold fear in the medic’s internal systems. Yes, the Decepticon could sense his fear. Yes, he enjoyed it. No, he wasn’t going to let it pass unnoticed. 

“Pharma,” Tarn growled beside his audio, and this time the thrill that passed through the medic’s spark wasn’t borderline pleasure, “there seems to be only eleven T-cogs in this bag you’ve given me. Our bargain was for thirteen, if I remember correctly. **Do** explain.”

In his chamber, his spark cowered. There was nowhere it could flutter to escape the vicious, multi-toned blade of the voice slowly dissecting it word by word. “Twelve T-cogs,” Pharma corrected, straining his vocalizer to sound normal. “The damage to the one is superficial. It’s functional.”

“Hmm?” The Decepticon reached into the bag again and poked the T-cog in question with an inquisitive purple finger. He kept his voice neutral, but he smirked behind his mask at how the pretty little wings jerked just a bit with every word as their owner waited for the pain. It was coming, and they both knew it, but Tarn knew the value of using time as a punishment. “It doesn’t look like it will take a dozen transformations.”

“So it won’t win any beauty contests,” the medic snapped. “Neither will you. It’s a natural fit.”

The leader of the DJD didn’t reply for a long klik. His head slowly turned, bottom of his mask digging into the turbine it rested on. Red optics bored into the side of the Autobot’s helm. Pharma refused to turn his helm and meet those optics. Insulting a giant war machine known for cruelty probably hadn’t been smart, but the tension was _getting_ to him. Snarking at the mech kept him from losing his cool completely and struggling like a complete fool. He knew better than that, at least.

Tarn gave him some time to think over his own words. As much as Pharma tried to control the tiny, anxious flicks of his wings, the building dread poisoned the medic a droplet of terror at a time. The urge to flinch away grew in leaps and bounds. He didn’t want to think himself a coward, but he was no fighter. He was an Autobot _medic_ , not an Autobot _frontliner_. For Primus’ sake, he’d never even been on an active battlefield! His skill set belonged safe behind the lines, not in the danger zones where his life hung out for anyone to take it!

Humiliation could hang around his neck and rub his face in how he’d had to all but whore himself to the Decepticon at their last meeting, but it still couldn’t overpower survival instinct. Pharma knew that heroes rarely lived to be heroes another day, but cowards could still do surgery after begging for their lives. Be it by pleasure or pain, his spark could still be snuffed out by this mech’s whim. If surrendering like a weakling kept him alive, then he’d do what it took to survive. He’d been viscerally reminded of that fact in their last meeting.

He hadn’t made the T-cog quota then, either. That’d broken their bargain. He’d _thought_ he could placate the mech with a calm, rational explanation about the lack of patient fatalities, but apparently a broken deal meant much more to the Decepticon than he’d anticipated. It canceled the whole bargain, to the tank’s mind, and Pharma had been pinned on his front by a vastly peeved leader of the DJD. Tarn’s disappointment for losing a steady supply of T-cogs had almost been countered by his gloating that he’d soon get his hands on Ambulon. 

Held helpless under one huge foot and scrabbling at the ground in a pitiful escape attempt, the Autobot had been forced to listen to that gloating. Purring words had detailed each of the Decepticon Justice Division member’s gruesome abilities. After a while, the giant tank had knelt down to ensure that his little deal-breaker had been listening, forcing the smaller mech’s face into the dirt when he’d slagging well covered the whole ‘bot by pressing one enormous knee down onto him. He’d conversationally filled the medic in on just how the DJD would go about executing every living being on Delphi, saving the jet himself, of course, for last. 

The destruction of the Delphi clinic and his staff had terrified Pharma almost as much as his own fate. He’d be made to watch, Tarn informed him, while they demonstrated what they would eventually inflict upon him. Every last thing. It would take days to finish off Ambulon alone, and breaking the deal with the DJD meant that, technically, Tarn could add him to the List as well. Pharma would get a free preview of his own execution! How convenient. Words were Tarn’s weapon of choice, but a thousand words still couldn’t describe just how _loud_ the screams would get.

The medic had been half-mad with fear when Tarn tired of painting the future in lurid detail and decided to give him a small taste of what was waiting for him. 

Feeling his spark dim toward extinguishing had been more terrible than the pain that’d followed immediately after, precisely because it hadn’t hurt. The Decepticon’s velvety voice had softly coaxed his spark through several cycles that’d had him shrieking panic and agony in turns into the dirt. Tarn had banked and then ignited his spark using merely the dip and rise of his words. An intimate whisper could kill, and the knowledge left Pharma shuddering. The idea that death wouldn’t _hurt_ at the very end felt like the very worst violation that could possibly be inflicted upon him. Then the pain had hit, and he suffered its unending agony, _knowing_ it’d been the worst thing he could ever endure, stuck in that horrible world where pain went on and one forever -- except that it’d stopped. It’d stopped, and the sweet, painless whispers had soothed his spark back down to start the cycle again. 

The head of the Delphi Emergency Medical Clinic had been a whimpering wreck of lost dignity before the third long period of pain ebbed toward that more terrible lack of sensation. By the seventh, any resolution to face death nobly had crawled off to sob in a corner somewhere. Pharma wailed and clawed at the dirt when he couldn’t speak, and begged mercy when he could. 

Oh, yes, he’d begged. Pharma had groveled under Tarn’s knee, desperate to live no matter the cost. And when the Decepticon had stopped trickling pain and sharp, acid words into his spark, he’d deigned to listen to the jet’s quavering stream of pleas. It’d gotten a genuine hum of amusement from the evil fragger. It’d turned his devious mind to other entertainments, and his little medic had been just broken enough around the edges to agree to whatever terms he set. He’d been sure to pick the most degrading ones, because hope could be such an awful thing when implemented by a skilled torturer. 

**[* * *]**

_by Shibara_  
 **[* * *]**

“A second chance,” Tarn had said, dangling that in front of the Autobot like he would a treat for Kaon’s pet turbofox. “Perhaps. If I enjoy myself.” 

On all fours and cringing, Pharma had resembled an animal more than a mech at that point. He’d gone for the offered tidbit just as eagerly, as well. His tormentor had reclined on the ground, casual and confident, and he’d climbed painfully to his feet to drag his aching frame over to the larger mech. 

Only to fall to his knees at the Decepticon’s side in order to use mouth and hands on him. It’d taken…far too long to bring the tank to overload. No way in the Pit was Tarn going to allow a medic to tap into his systems or open his chest, so that’d left tactile stimulation of sensors that were buried under layers of armor. Pharma had nibbled and licked, clever fingers trembling with aftershocks of pain as they delved under plating, and Tarn had chuckled as he’d watched the Autobot work. The sight had been as pleasing as the actual caresses, especially the badly-concealed expression of humiliation that’d stolen across that patrician face the longer Tarn held out. Purple hands had scooped the Autobot up to straddle him, blue thighs spread wide over black hips, and for a moment, Pharma’s furious shame had shone through.

The Decepticon had thrown his head back and laughed uproariously. Trembling with affronted rage and humiliation, the medic had kept his optics lowered to his task. A few rumbling threats amidst the laughter had kept Pharma frantic to please, but Tarn’s attention had been caught. That shame had been just lovely. A couple of purred orders had made the jet’s spark flare in other ways, ways that poured involuntarily, mortified arousal straight though already-upset systems, and the tank had amused himself by -- 

No. Pharma preferred not to remember that disgrace in any great detail. The paint transfers hadn’t come from violence, to his shame. Unfortunately, his current predicament was too similar not to bring the memories back.

The only good news was that his unwilling obedience to the Decepticon’s sick, degrading orders had earned him a second chance. The deal had been renegotiated yet again –- from ten T-cogs to thirteen –- but he’d been certain that he could meet the new goal. 

…he hadn’t.

“Twelve is not thirteen,” Tarn said, and his words lilted slightly at the end. He waited expectantly for a reply, but the jet in his embrace stayed stubbornly silent. He turned his head a bit further and, mock-tender, nuzzled Pharma’s helm as he prodded, “I know you can count.”

The lilt swept around the bottom of Pharma’s spark like fingers swirling about it in a teasing caress. Or fingers feeling for a good grip to start crushing. “Yes,” the medic forced out, refusing to react.

“Then do explain,” the Decepticon invited, and his reasonable tone belied what they both knew was coming.

He’d been granted a second chance, but there wasn’t a high probability for a third. High enough that it’d outstripped trying to cut and run from the DJD, however. Pharma was gambling that he might somehow earn that third chance, but how high would the price be? Dread made the coming punishment loom darker by the second. 

Anger had his hands fisted at his sides already, but his EM field skimmed close to his metal. It wasn’t just fear that had him tense.

Blue optics looked away from the bag still held open in front of him. “The war front has moved away from Delphi. My staff can handle the casualties that have been sent to us. I’m…sorry,” the words was spat, “that the death rate here isn’t steep enough to support your **addiction**.” His disapproval for Tarn’s transformation addiction almost covered his fear, but again, his EM field betrayed him. Fear shimmered below the bluster. “Maybe if you sought treatment instead of your next fix -- “

“Are you truly in any position to judge me?” the massive, extremely dangerous sadist holding him said very, very softly, and Pharma _screamed_. Agony crackled through the medic’s spark in searing constrictions like the bared-steel voice actually compressed it with every syllable. Tarn held him tighter as the jet suddenly surged forward, chest pushing away from the source of pain but unable to escape. “So arrogant, Pharma. You know better, Pharma. Why do you make me do this to you, Pharma? The deal was thirteen T-cogs, not twelve, Pharma. Do you remember what you did to change our deal, Pharma? Pharma? Pharma, my Pharma, answer me. Do you remember, Pharma?”

Pharma slumped and keened quietly, energy field a conflicted mess. Every time Tarn said his name, it pulled a pure bolt of sheer pleasure through the agony. “Yes. Yes!” he cried, almost howling as the Decepticon’s vocalizer reset audibly in warning. “I remember! I couldn’t –- I couldn’t get thirteen of them! I’m **sorry**!” This time, the apology was much more sincere. “I can’t bring you what I don’t have!”

“You have all the T-cogs I could ever need in your facility,” the Decepticon corrected him coldly, slicing his spark into screeching rags of energy that still lived. Somehow Pharma was still alive, face contorted as his spark fought to live and _that voice_ sawed it over the fiery edge where he’d kill _himself_ to end the razor cuts inside him. Verbal fingers had him in their taloned hold and were pulling his spark apart. “All you have to do is let the weaker patients die. You know the ones. The drains on your resources. The ones who would be months recovering, or never recover no matter how much time you dedicate to them.” 

The hard tone softened just enough at the end, brushing persuasively instead of attacking, that his medic collapsed back against him in shaking reaction. The jet had been a rigid statue too agonized to bend a joint a moment ago. Tarn dug the bottom point of his mask into Pharma’s shoulder as he took one arm away from the embrace to stow the bag. He used that same hand to gather the medic’s wrists together behind his back. The stuttering whirl of his spark had the airframe so addled he didn’t even notice being restrained, and the purple mask didn’t show how Tarn smirked behind it.

He whispered in his foolish medic’s audio, “You are one T-cog short. I find it difficult to believe that such an easy solution never crossed your mind.”

“They’re my patients,” Pharma insisted hoarsely. “I am…” He hesitated, about to say that he was an Autobot. Right here and now, that argument didn’t hold up. “A medic. I’m a medic.”

“Medics triage patients all the time,” the Decepticon argued gently, and his pet jet arched with a pained yell. “Separate out those who could better serve as spare parts instead of living to be a burden. Call it sacrificing a few for sake of the many.”

When the jolting pain released him back into a strutless slump this time, Pharma had to scrape up the strength to shake his head. “I-I took oaths. I c-can’t do that.” A frightened whimper pushed out, and his optics shut off as he braced himself, knowing it wouldn’t help but unable to stop himself.

The pain didn’t come, however, and that was worse. White and red wings shivered, and Tarn’s poor Autobot moaned as a mere whisp of a sound cajoled his spark into slowing. Slowing, and slowing further, until Pharma desperately thrashed in the Decepticon’s arms, optics online again and blazing a panicked blue as he twisted, trying to appeal to the purple mask still on his shoulder. 

“No, please! I’m sorry! I -- it won’t happen again, Tarn! I’ll make it up to you! **Please**!” The hand around his wrists held him facing forward, pinned between the arm across his chest and the broad torso behind him, but Pharma still struggled. “Don’t! Don’t do this!”

“I gave you another chance,” murmured painlessly as the touch of a well-honed blade, and the fact that it didn’t hurt had the medic near hysteria. “You squandered it, my darling Pharma.” A moan got past gritted teeth as pleasure boiled sweet and fierce, there and gone in a name. “A shame that you wasted it so, but the good news is that you did bring me that last T-cog.” The jet staggered, suddenly feeling slow and heavy as his spark sluggishly turned in its chamber. He couldn’t quite process why the arm across his chest had lightened to a single finger drawing down to make small, suggestive circles under his cockpit. “The question is how long I want to wait before collecting it.” 

Tarn studied the numb, baffled look on Pharma’s face and snorted lightly. His victims sometimes had peculiar reactions in the final phases of spark extinguishment, and this Autobot seemed to have detached completely. The hysteria had been amusing. It was rather a pity that it’d ended so quickly. 

The jet was quite entertaining in general, actually. Enough so that Tarn felt a pang of regret for ending the medic’s ordeal so soon. The leader of the DJD debated his decision briefly, faintly bothered that his leniency might be mistaken as a sign of lessening believe in the Cause, but no. No, doubtful as it was, Pharma might still be salvageable. 

“I rather think you’re worth the extra effort of taking my time,” he told the befuddled mech. “For now.” 

So he let his finger linger, singing an idle arpeggio while he waited for the medic’s spark to slowly speed back up.

The first indication that his little toy was back up to speed was a slight recoil away from the finger exploring his seams. Pharma’s head turned, bringing wide blue optics around to stare in horror at him. “You -- You -- “ 

They both knew what Tarn had almost done. What Pharma didn’t know was why he hadn’t gone through with it. A rough clearing of a throat clogged by fear, and the question came out. 

Eventually. 

The medic had to restart his vocalizer twice. Tarn waited with exaggerated, overly polite patience.

“…why?”

“Because you still owe me another T-cog,” the Decepticon said smoothly, letting his voice stroke that fluttering spark as if it were his favorite pet, “and I do hope you will learn to deliver. If not…I know you will learn to regret crossing me.” He shrugged.

Pharma’s head jerked, staring down to where a purple finger tapped an unsubtle hint over where his own T-cog operated. His optics widened further, rounding with shock and fear. “N-no! I’ll -- I’ll -- “ He floundered for words to persuade the sadistic ‘Con, clamping down on the urgent need to _get away_ from the threat because -- Primus help him -- he knew escape wasn’t an option. “I’ll do it. I’ll deliver,” he said meekly. “Give me another chance, Tarn. Just one more.”

“’Just one more’?” Tarn scoffed at the plea. “I suppose you will offer your word now, as you did last time?” His broken, worthless word couldn’t be trusted, if a Decepticon ever trusted. Pharma mutely nodded, optics downcast, because what else could he offer? The velvet-wrapped steel of the tank’s laughter kneaded his spark, and the jet barely had enough control to stop himself from writhing. “Oh, you are precious. Very well.”

Hope had been stomped on so successfully Pharma didn’t understand what had been said for a second. Then his head whipped around, and his intakes caught air as fear suddenly released its hold on him. “I -- “ He scrambled for what few dregs of dignity he had left. “My...thanks, Tarn. I assure you, I am grateful for the opportunity to restore your faith in me,” he said as wryly as he could manage when the purple finger that’d been laying over his T-cog started walking up over his cockpit, made small circles up over his chest plates, and picked over his neck linkages. “Next time. Ah.” His chin rose uneasily, and the finger kept plucking individual cables. “I. Ah. Next time, I will bring you all thirteen -- “

The rumble of amusement wasn’t a surprise, but the medic winced anyway. “Twenty,” his captor corrected him.

The quota hike got a full flinch, but what was Pharma going to do, argue? Right now, he was incredibly fortunate to be _allowed_ to pay whatever price Tarn set. “Twenty,” he repeated. He was defeated and knew it. 

The finger on his neck continued upward, pushing his head up, and the medic found himself stretched awkwardly between the hard grip pulling his arms back by the wrists and the finger delicately curled under his chin. “Mm. A fair bargain, yes?”

“Yes,” he agreed, helpless.

“Something should be done, I think, to seal the deal. Since your promises seem to be forgotten too easily, it should be something more memorable. Hmm. A limb, or -- ? Yes, perhaps this.” The medic’s vocalizer made a funny _gleep_ of panic as the hand on his wrists singled out one finger. “Your hands, I believe, are important to you. A missing finger may serve as a reminder you will actually remember.” 

Blue hands clenched into fists, trying to protect every vulnerable finger, but Pharma’s arms could only flex futilely. The finger under his chin kept his head up and forward, and if the Decepticon wanted to tear off something, nothing he could do would stop the massive mech. “That’s not necessary!” the Autobot yelped, and he didn’t even care that his voice had gone high-pitched in fear. “I’ll remember, I swear! I’ll -- I’ll bring an extra T-cog next time to make it up to you!”

“Oh, you will, will you?” That got a contemplative hum, and the medic shivered, waiting. The offer, at least, was one the Decepticon had a vested interest in. “Very well. I intend to collect more than twenty-one parts if you ‘forget’ again, however.” The warning zinged across his spark. Pharma winced but nodded acceptance. “Now, as for sealing our deal…” Tarn tilted his head, angling his mask, and his little jet tensed, expression horrified all over again as the words triggered a pulsating, _surging_ pleasure out of nowhere and everywhere. “ **Pharma** ,” popped through the medic in an explosion of energy and light and venomous, shame-seasoned _bliss_ , “you may overload now.”

**[* * *]**

_by Shibara_  
 **[* * *]**

He didn’t scream, but that was only because he couldn’t unlock his jaw to get the full-throated sound out. A muffled noise that might have been a squeal dropped into a low, hitching groan punctuated by loud, erratic whirrs from his confused interfacing system. It came online ready to go, riding the energy surge as Pharma convulsed, and whined gradually back offline once the overload finally finished.

It took a while. Every time the medic’s spark started to slow, a single, bell-like note sang high-voltage current around it in a rushing tidal wave of pleasure that left the Autobot completely wrung-out and strutless. By the time the electric jolts stopped making him seize and shake, Pharma was mostly incoherent as his whole body tried to reset at once.

His wrists had been released at some point during the merciless surges, but Tarn’s had grabbed him by the air intake instead. Mostly to keep the rubber-jointed mech upright, it seemed. Pharma slumped in his grip whimpering in quiet reaction while his tormentor held him up and chortled in his audio. "Such a pretty show, Autobot. Short, however. Perhaps next time I'll make you dance first."

"Like the Pit you will." His knee joints wobbled alarmingly, but Pharma forced himself upright. The purple hands slid down to molest his wings instead of leaving him alone, but at least he wasn't _relying_ on them anymore. His HUD cleared, systems restarting, and he squashed his interfacing’s inquiry about a partner. He didn’t have a partner. What Tarn had done was -- he hadn’t -- that wasn’t --

Humiliation nested on shame and rage under his cockpit, not going anywhere any time soon. It’d be around to remind him of this for a good long while.

He shook his shoulders, trying to shake loose the hands toying with his wings. They pinched his wingtips disapprovingly, and the Autobot snorted his disgust. "Dance. Fah." 

Tarn hummed, amused, and stood up straight. Pharma’s vents sighed air out, although the mech gave no other sign of relief. It seemed he felt the bargain protected him from any further consequences for his failure today. The Decepticon’s head tilted, looking down at the shorter mech as he gave that some consideration. Tarn’s reputation really didn’t support the conclusion, and he didn’t like that the Decepticon Justice Division might get a reputation for leniency out of this. No, something had to be done to truly teach Pharma the error of his ways. One didn’t just walk away from crossing the DJD. 

Purple fingers kept running along the edges of red and white wings, and the humming deepened to a rendition of one of his favorite classical sonatas. His little medic muttered an insult under his breath for the choice in music, assuming he was being mocked, and under his mask, the Decepticon smiled.

A moment later, Pharma understood. The jet went rigid, held between the fingers now squeezing his wingtips in time with the rhythm.

"Stop."

Tarn kept humming. His fingers twisted downturned wingtips, just enough that the metal _skreep_ ed protest and the sensors underneath sensitized. A couple of pinches to the leading edges had the wings flicking, but he persisted with the petting, teasing pressure until even the lightest touch was tracked by hyper-aware sensors. The jet shifted uncomfortably, just waiting for the pain to start.

But there was only the humming.

One blue hand rose to press to Pharma's chest, an involuntary movement trying to protect an already violated spark. The gold glass of his canopy seemed brighter, as if excess charge were gathering there. The glass buzzed faintly against his palm. "S-stop."

The stuttered protest was ignored. The tank chose another tune to follow: an older song that'd once been popular in seedy bars. It'd been popular because the lyrics had been more than suggestive. The singer had been notorious for using his vocals to verbally interface with listeners, turning a song into musical sex. The lyrics had been obscene, the music a soundtrack for lust, and the beat even more so. One massive foot began to tap, deliberately hinting. Ever-so-quietly, Tarn began to croon the words aloud.

Fans that had just begun to slow down were busily whirring again, and Pharma stood stiff as plate metal. "Y-you've made your point. Stop. Tarn." His wings shuddered as large palms opened and swept across them. The sensors bleated feedback, and the medic’s insides twisted strangely into a taunt knot. "No."

Already low, the Decepticon’s voice dipped to an intimate murmur dripping heat into the medic’s spark chamber and filthy lyrics into his audios. Blue optics shut off, and the jet’s chest pushed forward just a bit. "No." The chorus came in a low whisper that crawled through him and sparkled across a primed sensor network still not calmed down from the previous overload. Because a second one was exactly where this was heading, and Pharma’s objections came out in a moan nearly unheard under the music. "Stop."

Of course Tarn didn’t. His voice dropped past baritone, past audible sound, to the point where all that was left was the _feeling_ of the bass pitch seeping into Pharma’s spark. The jet’s main turbine buzzed as the moving parts vibrated in their slots, and his optics sputtered white and blue as he tried to bring them back online. His hands had curled pressed to his chest plating, and tiny mewls of need leaked from his throat. "Stop. Please."

A little louder, the lyrics smoothed out to wrap lovingly around that flickering spark. Purple hands massaged across plating that flinched away and then back into their hold, electromagnetic field bleeding a harvest of _panic_ and _denial_ into his palms. Smug satisfaction answered Pharma’s hatred and involuntary, helpless arousal. "St -- **nnhn** \-- stop! Nnngh.” Hot air panted from overworked intakes, and the medic’s face was a picture of shame when another moan forced its way out of him. “Tarn, sto -- o-oh."

More murmurs, the music dying away to whispers of sound that caressed the Autobot’s spark like Tarn had actually opened the mech’s chest, reached in, and was working his thumbs deep into the ambient energy aura surrounding it, transferring excess electromagnetic energy from field to spark in electric surges almost as pleasurable as the physical contact itself. Pharma’s mouth drooped open as the power keeping his jaw shut was rerouted to node receivers suddenly overwhelmed by input. "OhPrimusohstop," he slurred. His main turbine spun, but the hands tweaking his wingtips bent them in clear threat that reached him even through the dizzy vortex of building pleasure. "Don't, please Tarn, stop, please don't!" 

Disoriented, he tried to turn around in the Decepticon’s arms to confront the larger mech, but a pitch change had his knees going out from under him. Pharma slumped, and a sobbed plea escaped him before he could stop it: "Don't stop, don't don't -- " His cockpit _glittered_ , charge skimming the glass, and the medic’s head rolled back to rest against Tarn’s chest. Hot air billowed from his vents in vast heaves, fans rattling, and it wasn’t enough. He was overheating, but the teasing hum wasn’t enough. Oh, Primus, he was so hot, so very hot, but it wasn’t enough! “ **Ahhh _hh_** hhnn. Please!" He writhed, hands leaving his chest to go back and scrabble at black hips in desperation. “Please! For pity' sake -- **please**!"

"And now," Tarn purred, self-satisfied and keeping a tight grip on the jet quivering and all but melted into putty in his hands, "I think I want to see that dance."

Pharma dragged in air that felt too thin and too hot to cool his strained systems. It came out in a groan as his spark gave another shivery pulse in response to Tarn's teasing, not-quite-enough hum. It twisted him _just_ at the edge, and he grimaced, expression pained. When his vision cleared of alerts about an energy seize that hadn't quite tripped him into overload -- like he hadn't _felt_ it?! -- the medic struggled to keep his voice level. Sane. As if a rational argument would reach this maniac. 

He knew better, but he still had to try. "B-be...be reasonable," he rasped, vocalizer spitting as much static as actual words. "My absence will be noticed soon!"

Discovery of their deal versus Tarn making his pet Autobot squirm? No bargain. "Your absence will be noticed by that traitor," Tarn agreed, letting the medic collapse back against him as blue legs suddenly went weak and an energy-swollen spark spasmed on the cusp of climax. He made sure to pause, listening closely to that spark until he was sure it'd ebbed enough to continue. Just to prod it up again. "I do hope Ambulon comes looking for you."

"OhPrimusplease." He was barely coherent enough to feel ashamed of how he sobbed for divine intervention. If Primus would give him the overload he so sorely needed right now, Pharma would have gladly groveled. "Please, Tarn,” he grated, knowing he’d reached his breaking point. Any more, and he’d be on his knees _offering_ to overload the tank, and that -- not again. He couldn’t do that again. Pharma’s voice dropped to a resentful mutter of, “Fragging glitchborn underclocked Decepticon gutterspawn **ohh** uhhhn!" 

The stream of insults abruptly became a grunted, half-strangled cry, and that breaking point? The poetry spoken against the middle of his turbine pushed him well past it, past the point where he could even understand the words that broke him. They strummed the electrical surges tormenting his spark, plucking the voltage higher and lower according to the emphasis placed on every syllable: never high enough to tip him into overload, but never low enough to allow him even a second to recover.

When his medic had been thoroughly reduced to whimpers and undignified, pleading moans, Tarn lifted his mask from where he'd pressed it between Pharma's shoulders. His humming vocalizer had never raised volume, but placed behind the Autobot’s spark chamber like that?

"Please," the medic panted, hanging from his hands. "Please. What...what do I...do I have to do? Ohhh." He shuddered, hands opening and closing convulsively on open air. "Ohhhuuh yes. Please. I'll do it. J-just tell me."

The purple mask came down to rest on one shoulder, nestling in a mockery of affection between his victim’s helm and air intake. "I believe you owe me a dance, Autobot." Tarn’s hands ran down the medic's shaking arms to take the wrists. He used them to raise Pharma's arms up over his head and back, setting blue hands on his shoulder-treads. "Like this. A 'gutterspawn Decepticon' such as I would never get any other kind of dance, hmm?" His laughter held a dangerous kind of amusement, as if he dared the Autobot to suggest otherwise. 

Pharma clutched the treads as if his life depended on it, which it did, and miserably admitted, "I have no idea what sort of dance you're talking about." He could guess, but...frag him. He'd never -- it wasn't something -- oh, _really_ , who expected a medic to slum in bars the sort of mechs who’d become Decepticons had once hung out in?! The only reason he’d recognized the song Tarn had tormented him with earlier was because First Aid’s obsession with the Wreckers meant the nurse listened to ‘their’ music as well. He wouldn’t have been caught dead in a bar that song was played in!

Because it was a filthy song. A sleazy, offensive compilation of sexual acts that were crude at best and physically improbable at worst. Interface systems didn’t _work_ like that. 

That hardly kept his spark from whirling wildly when Tarn crooned the lyrics against his audio, one foot tapping in time again, and Pharma’s fingers dug into the Decepticon’s treads as he shut off his optics and tried to endure. Toleration quickly became whimpers and suffering as that velvety voice delicately brushed the lewd chorus words through him. Large purple hands lowered to trim hips. 

The intimate touch had the Autobot jerking away on reflex, but a growl turned burning arousal into a flamewhip lash across an already over-sensitized spark. Intakes stuttered, and a whine of pain got out before it could be stifled. Blue hands fumbled for their lost grips, returning obediently to the Decepticon’s treads. Chastised, Pharma gritted his teeth and shivered under the slow crawl of comparatively huge hands on his body. Purple fingers stroked, exploring the gaps where thighs met pelvis. The white plating on the front of his pelvic plating was groped, every inch violated, making him _feel_ the touches. The hands settled into a firm hold only after Pharm’s EM field was a shimmer of humiliated, furious desire under them.

Tarn _yanked_ him back, lunging a step backward for distance to take the smaller mech completely off-balance. Dragged back by his hold on the treads and the hands on his hips, Pharma yelled in surprise and flailed, kicking his feet. One large silver thigh abruptly forced between the medic's own, however, taking him nearly off the ground. The hands continued pulling even as Tarn leaned forward, pushing the jet’s torso out while the mech’s hips were pulled in. The Autobot’s aft rode up his thigh, grinding as Pharma staggered on tip-toe. Red feet couldn’t quite reach the ground, and the medic arched and twisted as he tried. 

Only his frantic grasp on the treads over his head kept him from falling forward as the hands controlling his hips see-sawed them, keeping him from regaining his balance. He yelped, fighting the hands and unwittingly shimmying his groin up and down the wide silver thigh between his own. Looking down past twisting back structure at the aft bouncing in his lap, Tarn rumbled his enjoyment of the situation. It was always nice to see an airframe dance, and even nicer to have a hands-on place to watch the show from. 

One giant foot tapped the beat as the Decepticon resumed singing, and Pharma bucked in time unconsciously. He didn’t want to, but desperation had him riding the movement of Tarn's thigh and wanting more contact-friction even as he did. His overworked sensor networks had his wings twitching where they now lay back against either side of Tarn’s chest, conducting the mech’s EM field and vibrations from a powerful tank engine. His hands, a surgeon’s sensor-laden hands, buzzed as they gripped the Decepticon’s treads desperately. He pressed back, trying to rub his main turbine against Tarn’s front, seeking more contact, more energy surges, please more, and _it wasn’t enough_.

Dirty lyrics couched in velvet and fiery lust rocked him, and steel threat lingered in the back of his mind. Obey, or else. Give this cruel ‘Con a show, or else. His body tensed backward into a strut-bending bow and curled forward just as quickly; insensible, automatic thrusts in tandem with the thigh he rode. He undulating between gravity and desire, trying to push his throbbing spark up and back toward the purring voice tormenting it, and Pharma danced. 

"A dance like this," whispered in his audio, blotting out the music. The words had him deaf and blind, optics blazing and mouth dropping open.

Tarn watched him gyrate, appreciative but mostly amused. He kept his voice just level enough to prevent that last, lovely surge of energy, and his medic's frenzied writhing grew ever more gratifying. 

By the time the Autobot scraped enough coherency up to resume begging, the purple hands were no longer guiding his hips. No, that dip and wiggle was all Pharma. Pharma and stymied, overwhelming _need_ , yes, but the jet knew -- and oh, the humiliation stung -- that the shivering slide of his inner thighs against Tarn's leg was all him. The hands now stroking up and down his thighs paused every time to cup his aft and rub the thumbs in the middle of his back, and _yes_ , he pushed into the pawing. He proffered his aft like a two-credit bar dancer, hung his head, and whimpered his pleas. 

Because it was too much. He couldn’t take the punishing pleasure anymore. 

This...was worse than when he'd begged for his life. Then, at least, he'd had the excuse of shrieking stabs of pain from his spark and the threat of eminent death. Cowardice was a legitimate cause for begging. What was his excuse now? 

"Please, Tarn,” he pleaded, vocalizer stressed, “let me overload. Please, **please**. I'm -- you've had your show. Plea -- ohhhh, please. Please!" 

His pride could be traded for a few surges, apparently. 

One large purple finger reached down and traced a lecherous line from knee to torso, stopping to linger on his bucking hips. It came to rest under his cockpit. "Open up," Tarn sang. 

Horror washed a too-brief cold chill through him before his spark pulsed hot again. "N-no, please -- " 

"I want to see you dance, Pharma." The jet arched and moaned long and loud at the sound of his name. For half a click, he was helpless to do more than twist and make incoherent half-words. "I want to see those famous fingers dance, too." 

"Primus no, spare me," sobbed from the Autobot, but the words were almost covered by the click of chest latches opening. He would do anything, anything at all, to finally end this. 

"Primus really isn't the one you should be praying to," Tarn told him gently as he pried one fine blue hand off his shoulder-treads and guided it, trembling and reluctant, toward where brilliant light spilled out. The purple mask shifted until the Decepticon could peer downward as well, watching. 

The hand's shaking only increased, fingers making small motions like they would try to escape, but there was no escape. There was the massive tank on whose thigh the Autobot sat, and the pulsing spark begging for completion under his fingertips. The jet's vents hiccupped, gasping for air as blue fingers slipped in to knead and pet and fondle. Dark, silken laughter rolled through the poor mech, and the fingers worked faster. Faster, and deeper, but it wasn’t working. Broken, wordless sounds of pleading tumbled from the Autobot’s mouth, and his fingers worked and worked.

In the end, at last, when he tired of watching those talented fingers dance futilely over his toy’s engorged spark, Tarn did indeed make the medic pray to him. 

By then, Pharma was willing to.

 

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
